Rain poured endlessly over Manhattan, drowning the city in silver lights and shadows.
From the backseat of a black luxury SUV, Ishira Sharma watched New York through the rain-covered window with unreadable eyes.
The city looked alive.
Dangerously alive.
Bright billboards reflected across wet streets while crowds moved under umbrellas like ghosts beneath towering skyscrapers. Sirens echoed somewhere far away. Music leaked from clubs hidden between expensive hotels.
New York wasn’t peaceful.
It was hungry.
And somehow, Ishira loved it instantly.
“You’ve been staring outside like you’re about to conquer the city,” Kiara teased beside her.
Ishira didn’t look away from the window. “Maybe I am.”
Kiara laughed softly and stretched against the leather seat. “God, I missed you. London made you too serious.”
“London made me bored.”
That part was true.
After the death of her parents, London became less of a home and more of a cage built from luxury and protection. Her uncle and aunt gave her everything she wanted—money, safety, freedom.
Everything except answers.
The accident that killed her parents still haunted her in pieces.
Fire.
Shattered glass.
Blood on rain-soaked roads.
And a feeling deep inside her that the accident had never truly been an accident.
Maybe that was why criminal psychology fascinated her so much.
Monsters interested her.
Because she grew up surrounded by them.
Her older brother Aryan ruled one of Europe’s most feared underground empires. People feared his name. Politicians bribed him. Enemies disappeared overnight.
And yet even Aryan became strangely tense whenever New York was mentioned.
Especially one particular name.
Ivaan Mehra.
The Devil of New York.
The man nobody dared cross.
Her phone vibrated suddenly.
ARYAN CALLING
Kiara grinned. “Speak of the overprotective mafia brother.”
Ishira answered immediately. “What now?”
Aryan sighed deeply. “Wonderful greeting.”
“I’m tired.”
“You landed two hours ago.”
“And already annoyed.”
Kiara snorted beside her.
Aryan ignored it. “Listen carefully. Stay away from underground circles in New York.”
“I’m studying criminal psychology, not joining gangs.”
“I’m serious, Ishira.”
Something in his tone made her attention sharpen.
“The city belongs to dangerous people,” Aryan continued quietly. “Especially Ivaan Mehra.”
There it was again.
That name.
“He’s just another mafia boss,” she replied casually.
“No.” Aryan’s voice darkened. “He’s worse.”
For a second, silence filled the car.
Even Kiara stopped smiling.
“I can handle myself,” Ishira finally said.
“That’s exactly what worries me.”
The line disconnected.
Ishira leaned back against the seat, exhaling softly.
Outside, thunder cracked across the sky.
Neither of them noticed the black SUV following them from three streets away.
High above Manhattan, inside the top floor of Venus Tower, a man stood silently beside floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the city.
Ivaan Volkov.
The king of New York’s underworld.
Rain reflected against the glass behind him while darkness wrapped naturally around his tall figure. He wore black dress pants and a black shirt with sleeves rolled slightly above his wrists, revealing veins, scars, and tattooed skin.
Cold grey eyes.
Sharp jawline.
Broad shoulders.
Controlled violence hidden beneath expensive fabric.
Power followed him naturally.
Not loudly.
Quietly.
The office remained deadly silent around him. No one dared speak first.
Three armed men stood near the entrance waiting nervously while another placed a file carefully on the black marble table.
“She arrived this evening, sir.”
Ivaan’s gaze slowly lowered toward the file.
A photograph stared back at him.
Ishira Sharma.
Long blonde hair.
Sharp eyes.
Beautiful in a way that felt dangerous.
His expression didn’t change.
But the room somehow became colder.
“The university acquisition is complete,” one man informed carefully. “No one suspects anything.”
“And the professor position?” Ivaan asked quietly.
“Approved.”
Silence again.
Ivaan picked up the photograph slowly.
Seven years.
Seven years since he first saw her in London standing beside her parents at a charity gala.
She had looked lost back then.
Too young.
Too innocent for the darkness surrounding families like theirs.
But even then—
he remembered those eyes.
Eyes that looked directly into people instead of at them.
Most women chased power.
Ishira never cared about it.
That alone made her different.
Dangerous.
Obsessive thoughts were unfamiliar to Ivaan.
He controlled everything in his life with terrifying discipline.
But Ishira?
She had become the only weakness he never removed.
And now she was finally here.
In his city.
One of his men cleared his throat nervously. “Sir… Eclipse nightclub is prepared.”
A slow silence followed.
Then Ivaan placed her photograph back onto the table carefully.
“Good.”
One word.
Deep. Cold. Final.
Everyone immediately lowered their eyes.
Because when Ivaan Volkov spoke softly—
people feared him most.
By midnight, Eclipse nightclub pulsed like the heart of Manhattan itself.
Music thundered through black marble walls while expensive perfume mixed with smoke and alcohol. Crystal chandeliers reflected across crowds dressed in luxury and sin.
Kiara grabbed Ishira’s hand excitedly the moment they entered.
“Oh my God,” she shouted over the music, “this place is insane!”
But Ishira barely heard her.
The moment she stepped inside, people stared.
Not because she demanded attention.
Because she naturally owned it.
Her long blonde hair fell freely down her bare back in soft waves, contrasting beautifully against the black silk dress hugging every curve of her body. The dress stopped dangerously high on her thighs while the entire back remained exposed except for thin straps crossing her shoulders.
Elegant.
Tempting.
Untouchable.
Several men looked at her instantly.
Women too.
Kiara smirked proudly. “Every man here is mentally proposing to you.”
Ishira rolled her eyes. “You’re dramatic.”
“No, you’re just terrifyingly hot.”
They moved toward the bar while lights flashed across the crowded dance floor.
What Ishira didn’t notice—
was the private balcony above.
Or the man standing there watching her silently.
Ivaan Mehra.
The entire upper section emptied naturally around him despite the packed club.
Fear created distance.
Women admired him from afar but never approached without permission. Men avoided eye contact entirely.
Because everyone in New York knew exactly who he was.
Death in a black suit.
His cold grey eyes followed Ishira’s every movement below.
Patiently.
Obsessively.
One of his men stepped beside him carefully. “Should we send security closer to her?”
“No.”
His voice remained calm.
Emotionless.
Yet terrifying enough that the bodyguard immediately stepped back.
Below, a man approached Ishira at the bar confidently.
He smiled.
Said something flirtatious.
Then accidentally looked upward toward the balcony.
Toward Ivaan.
The man’s face drained of color instantly before he walked away without another word.
Ishira noticed.
Confused, she slowly lifted her gaze upward.
And froze.
For one dangerous second, the entire club disappeared around her.
Only him remained.
Tall.
Still.
Watching her like darkness itself had taken human form.
His face remained unreadable.
Yet those cold grey eyes held something terrifyingly intense.
Not interest.
Possession.
A strange chill moved through Ishira’s body.
Beside her, Kiara whispered nervously, “Holy shit…”
“What?”
“That’s Ivaan Mehra.”
The name settled heavily in the air.
Around them, people avoided even saying it too loudly.
But Ivaan never looked away from Ishira.
Not once.
And somehow—
she couldn’t look away either.
Hours passed.
Drinks blurred into laughter while rain crashed endlessly outside the city.
Kiara danced recklessly with strangers while Ishira leaned tiredly against the hallway wall near the VIP section, slightly dizzy from alcohol.
Her head spun lightly.
She hated feeling out of control.
But tonight felt unreal.
Maybe it was New York.
Maybe it was freedom.
Or maybe it was him.
Everywhere she looked, she felt Ivaan watching her silently from shadows.
Waiting.
Patient.
Dangerous.
Needing air, Ishira pushed open the nearest private room and stepped inside.
Darkness greeted her instantly.
Soft city lights filtered through massive windows overlooking Manhattan while the scent of smoke and expensive cologne filled the room.
Then the door closed behind her.
Slowly, Ishira turned.
Ivaan stood there.
His black shirt stretched perfectly across broad shoulders while shadows sharpened every dangerous feature on his face......
ISHIRA’S LOOK
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